


Adjacent Ficlets

by callmelyss



Category: Crash Pad (2017), Logan Lucky (2017), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Awkwardness, Ficlets, Fluff, Humor, Kylux Adjacent Ship, M/M, Sex, kylux adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 05:48:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14867810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmelyss/pseuds/callmelyss
Summary: Like the Kylux ficlets but with more androids and John Denver references.Further promises to keep updates and tags reasonable.





	1. Milestones (and Scattergories)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the lovely @techiehux, who requested Stensland meeting Clyde's family for the first time.

Stensland doesn’t know if it comforts or worries him that Clyde’s hand feels as clammy as his when they reach the front porch. Clyde’s hand itself—usually warm, strong, gently calloused—he likes, has liked from the beginning. That Clyde is as nervous about this as he is. Well. In one way, that’s sort of nice, isn’t it, that Clyde cares enough to _be_ nervous, nice that he wants Stens to meet his family at all, an enormous step in itself and how many films are there about this particular moment from slapstick comedies to heartfelt dramas and Sidney Poitier and it’s certainly a _sign_ , of what neither of them has put words to just yet, much as Stensland’s tongue itches to put about a quadrillion words to it, only he doesn’t know if any of them are the right words, damn it, and why is this always so hard.

Because then again, Clyde might be nervous because this is a terrible, terrible idea, and he’s just begun to realize what a complete disaster he’s brought about by inviting Stens along—

The grip on his hand tightens just perceptibly; Clyde’s thumb ghosts over his knuckles, soothing.

Stensland exhales and squeezes back. “How much of that did I say out loud just now?” he asks, as the two of them contemplate Mellie Logan’s front door.

“Most of it, I reckon,” Clyde says. But he’s smiling in that way he has by crinkling his eyes at the corners, and it’s too much to resist. Stens has to kiss him.

It’s not a long kiss, mostly chaste, because this is a family event and because they’re both still a little shy with each other, frankly. Regardless, a not-inconsequential tingle goes through Stens, which he knows is both heady lust and another feeling, something warm and bright and fluttering.

“I like you very much, Clyde Logan,” he tells him when they part for air. They’re so close he can see the flecks of gold in Clyde’s eyes. Which is, naturally, when the front door opens. Mellie Logan is standing there smirking.

“Oh, Jesus.” Flushing, Stensland takes a step away from Clyde.

“Hi, Clyde,” Mellie says. She cranes her neck out the door. “Hiya, Earl.” Greeting a bearded man in a trucker hat smoking on the front porch  Stens hadn’t even _noticed_.

He covers his face. “Oh, _Jesus_.”

“Mellie. Clyde. Clyde’s fella.” The man, presumably Earl, nods and then goes back to his smoke.

“Mel, this is Stensland,” Clyde says.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Stens groans into his palms.

Clyde nudges him gently. “Hey now. Mel don’t care about public displays of affection.”

Stens chances a peek through his fingers. It’s true, she doesn’t _look_ too offended, at least not in any of the ways he would expect.

“Not such nice ones anyway,” Mellie agrees. She doesn’t resemble Clyde much at all, except maybe around the eyes. Is petite with shapely, tan legs that end in white cowboy boots. “C’mon in. It’s a party.”

She leads them through the house to the backyard, where most of the guests mill around the coolers or have taken up residence in lawn chairs. Mellie introduces them to a few of her coworkers and neighbors. Then there’s a legitimately terrifying character with pale eyes and paler hair and an assortment of amateur tattoos whom Clyde informs him is called _Joe Bang_ and he can’t figure out if that’s a bawdy joke or a criminal alias or his real name.

Finally, they circle around to the man working the grill, seemingly under the direction of a little blue-eyed blonde girl.

“Daddy, you got to sear the chicken properly,” she’s saying. “And don’t forget the marinade. I made it special.”

“Okay, okay, Sadie-bug,” he replies amiably. “You sure you don’t just wanna hot dog?”

“ _Daddy. The sodium._ ”

“Right.” He looks up when Mellie approaches with Clyde and Stens in tow, and his face does something complicated: affection and a certain sadness and wariness and another emotion Stens can’t identify. Clearly another Logan despite the lack of family resemblance. Clyde’s face is similarly expressive.

“This here is our brother Jimmy,” Mellie tells Stens before he can ask. “Jimmy, this is Clyde’s—Stensland.”

“Nice to make your acquaintance, Stensland.” Jimmy’s eyes flick from Stens to Clyde and back and he smiles slightly. “Just Stensland?”

“Usually.” He shrugs. “Friends call me Stens. Sometimes.”

“I see. Well, burger or ‘dog, Stens?” Jimmy asks. “Or there’s some fancy chicken here I’m apparently not makin’ right.”

“Daddy!”

“This is Sadie, my daughter. She despairs of my cooking.”

Stensland leans over and offers his hand to the little girl. He doesn’t know a lot about children, hasn’t had the occasion to meet many since he was one, and is always slightly concerned by the prospect, convinced he will do or say something horrific, as is his wont. “Hi there.”

“Hi,” Sadie says and shakes his hand. Nothing explodes and no one starts crying and apparently that’s that. Rather easier than he expected. She even adds, “I like your shirt.”

It’s a blue one, patterned with different species of owls.

“Why thank you. I like your—hair?”

“Aunt Mellie done it. Are you my uncle’s boyfriend?”

Okay, it’s _almost_ easy.

Stens laughs nervously, his voice straining. “Ah, you know, we’re not putting labels on it just yet, don’t want to rush your uncle into anything, but he’s very nice of course, not that I wouldn’t want to, oh god—” He subsides, grateful, when Clyde covers his mouth with his hand.

“We’re good friends,” he tells Sadie. Then, to Jimmy: “Gettin’ a beer. You want one?”

“Sure.”

Stens accompanies Clyde to the cooler. “Your brother’s nice. Your sister, too.”

“Yeah, they’re alright, I suppose. You want your usual?” He’s rummaging around in the ice.

“Please and thank you.” Stensland is on something of a detox after Grady, so he’s been drinking mostly soda. He smiles when Clyde produces a root beer for him. Recalls his confusion the first time Clyde asked him if he wanted a Coke and then added: “What kind?”

They deliver Jimmy’s beer and get two burgers in exchange, then find a couple of empty lawn chairs to sit and eat. Jimmy had tried to say something to Clyde when they reappeared, but he had shaken him off, another enigmatic look passing between the brothers. Stens can’t tell if he’s the cause of it. He hopes not; Clyde’s assured him more than once that his family won’t be bothered that Stensland is a man and not an American and a so-called coastal elite and somehow also a champion underachiever and failed blackmailer and…

“Jimmy gets maudlin on Memorial Day,” Clyde explains. Not looking at Stensland. His food’s untouched in his lap. “On account of—“ He gestures with his prosthetic arm, matte black and high tech. “That’s why Mellie does this. For both of us. I don’t like the…the fuss.”

Stens knows by now that this is not a small admission for Clyde; he reaches over to take his hand. He’s rewarded with a smile and a gentle squeeze in return.

He isn’t overly familiar with American observances of holidays. He knows there’s a particular spectacle associated with some of them, like the Fourth of July, but he doesn’t quite understand the love of country exhibited on such occasions. While he considers himself a student of love more generally, it’s the interpersonal iterations he concerns himself with most. He’s always been too untethered and perpetually displaced to be much of a patriot, although the love of _home_ sounds very nice, and he thinks about that while he holds Clyde’s hand and the party murmurs pleasantly around them for a long interlude.

Then, to his surprise, Jimmy and Sadie join them to eat, Jimmy offering Clyde a small nod of acknowledgment when he sits. “So, what do you do, Stensland?” he inquires.

Stens takes a deep breath, ready to deliver this disappointment, although he loves his new job, really he does and he’s good at it, too, good at _something_ for once. “I work in a furniture store,” he says.

“That right?” Jimmy asks. He pauses to chew a large bite of hamburger. “I work at the Lowes, myself. Furniture store—does that pay good?”

Stens only misses half a beat before he answers, and the conversation goes on like that for a while, just simple things like co-workers and customers and John Denver and Billy Ocean until the sun is sinking low behind the mountain and the first flashes of fireflies are starting to blink through the grass.

“We don’t have those on the West Coast, you know,” Stensland tells Sadie. That’s the sort of thing you can say to a child, right? He thinks it is.

“Really?”

“Really. I’d never seen them before.”

“C’mon inside, y’all,” Mellie calls from the back porch. “Sylvia’s here and she brought boardgames.”

When Stens goes to stand, he realizes he never really let go of Clyde, not the whole time they were talking to Jimmy and Sadie. Not that, for his part, Clyde seems to have minded, because he’s looking at Stens now with that especially fond expression, the one that gives Stens serious butterflies, and maybe he gets them more than most people, Stensland does, but still, these aren’t kidding around. He tugs gently and Clyde stands, too, and Stens leans in for another kiss, eyes sliding shut, and it’s just them in the falling dusk, surrounded by fireflies and the West Virginia hills and—

“I said inside, you two!” Mellie chastises them. “Get movin’. We’re playing Scattergories.”


	2. Self-Taught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from @thesevioletdel1ghts: inexperienced Stensland educates himself using unrealistic gay porn.
> 
> Note, this one is a bit **explicit** , as might you expect.

In retrospect, Clyde knows he should have figured something wasn’t quite right.

When Stens’ response to the tentative inquiry, “Wanna go a little further?” was “Oh, yessiree Bob!” Or something similarly odd. (Even for him.)

When he had all but leaped off the couch and dragged Clyde to his feet, too, almost overturning the coffee table.

When he had rubbed his hands together and laughed in that strained way he has sometimes and talked a mile a minute the whole brief distance from the den to Clyde’s bedroom, all the while throwing what were probably meant to be suggestive glances over his shoulder (but which made him look pretty deranged, truth be told).

In fairness, the fast-talking part wasn’t that suspect, not for Stensland, although Clyde supposes he was still more chattery than usual, babbling with a kind of hyper- _hyper_ -nervous energy, a thirteen to his typical eleven. But Clyde likes that about him—an awful lot—the chatter and near-incomprehensible monologues and the anxious twitching, likes even that Stens looks a mite deranged when he’s trying too hard. It’s sweet.

He just wishes he’d known. Before.

He started getting worried when Stens just about choked himself on his erection, trying to take the whole thing in one go and then coming up sputtering twice. The third time, he made a terrible retching noise, and his throat spasmed alarmingly so that Clyde had to all but shove him off before he hurt himself. “Easy, _easy_ , there.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Stens said hoarsely. “Oof, I guess I’m a bit out of practice, haha. Maybe we should, ah, just, yes, we should get to the main event, shouldn’t we then?”

Then, before Clyde could protest, could tell him to slow up for a second, he shucked his shirt and pants.

That part—that part wasn’t bad, seeing all of that long, lanky body, the diffident flush on his cheeks and neck and chest. But Clyde barely got a hand on him before Stens was on his back trying to do what looked like extremely complicated yoga, folding himself almost in half, ankles up by his ears, and to his credit, he just about managed it before he kicked himself in the face, fell off the bed, and shouted “ _Oh fook!_ ” loud enough to wake the neighbors, if Clyde had any.

Which brings them here, to Clyde’s tiny bathroom. Stensland's perched on the edge of the sink, a towel around his waist. Clyde brings him a baggie of ice wrapped in a washcloth for his bruised cheek—he bruises easily, has said so more than once—and then he leans back against the laminate wooden paneling. Lets out a steadying breath. Glances over through the fall of his hair. _Not aggressive_ , in that way he’s perfected since his first growth spurt. “So…you want to tell me what’s goin’ on?”

Stensland reddens. Seems keen on looking just about anywhere but Clyde’s face. He’s admiring the ducks on the shower curtain when he says, “Here’s the thing: I, uh, may have overstated my qualifications. Somewhat.”

“Your qualifications?”

“You know…how on your resume you might include things that aren’t maybe entirely true—like you’re proficient in Microsoft Excel, because how hard is it to use a spreadsheet, honestly, and you’ll just figure it out as you go because you can always just Google it?”

As is often the case with Stensland, Clyde can see the shape of what he’s saying, but not the color or texture. “Yeah…”

Stens has taken the half-melted ice from his face, is now twisting both the baggie and the washcloth in his hands and looking down at them. “I didn’t want you to think—and I’ve been with women, some really assertive women who gave very clear instructions, mind you. But I wasn’t sure if you’d want to, I mean, with someone who hasn’t—with men, you understand.“

“So you…”

“Lied. A bit. Or a lot.” He’s quick to add: “Not about liking you! Not about wanting—that. I do. That’s why I enhanced the truth, as it were. I thought, I thought I would just figure it out.“

Clyde mulls this over. It’s not a significant impediment, to his mind. He hasn’t had a slew of partners himself, not since he got out of the military. The nearest gay bars are in Charleston and over the state line in Roanoke, and Boone County’s at least a decade off from Grindr. And truth is, he likes things slow, careful. It’s his way, always has been. He’d been a little worried, even, that with a city boy, he’d have to move much faster than his preference.

So, no, not an impediment at all.

That does leave one question, though.

“What did you find?”

“Sorry?”

“On the Google.” Clyde gestures vaguely. “Before, you said if you didn’t know, you…”

“Oh!” Stens’ blush deepens. “Just the usual porn stuff: twink gets jackhammered by stud, stud really pounds the stuffing out of twink, two studs one twink, that sort, ha, that sort of thing.” He winces.

Well, that explains the—and the. _But hell_. Clyde shakes his head. “You thought that’s what I wanted to do to you? On our first time?” He’d be offended, except it’s Stensland.

“Well, I’m, uh. And you’re.”

It only takes Clyde one step to close the distance between them so that he’s standing between Stens’ splayed knees. He curls both arms around that skinny rib cage, draws him very gently forward. Stens’ hands come up to loosely clasp around the back of his neck. He tucks his chin over Clyde’s shoulder and sighs. “I’ve totally killed the mood, haven’t I? I’m a serial murderer of moods. An anti-Don Juan. A reverse Casanova. A negative George Clooney. I’ve cockblocked myself _and_ you. It’s my one talent.”

“It was only kind of a mood.” Clyde tries to reassure him. “We could go watch more TV, if y’like. Probably some _Top Chef_ on.” They’d been kissing each other stupid to the Weather Channel before. Low-pressure system coming in from the south over the weekend.

“That sounds nice.”

They stay like that for another moment, letting the awkwardness of the evening dissipate until they’re both almost chuckling about it, and then Clyde goes to help him down from the sink, only it’s close quarters, and Stensland ends up pressed against him, chest to chest and, more pertinently, pelvis to pelvis. Clyde’s near enough he can see Stens’ pupils dilate, black expanding into gray-green, and hear the small, needy noise he makes in the back of his throat and feel—well, he hadn’t been lying before about _wanting_ , at least.

“Or,” Stens says. Leaning up to murmur in Clyde’s ear, which sends a pleasant shiver through him. “You could take me back to bed and, um, teach me some things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I have a Clydeland problem? Maybe.


End file.
